When Japanese Cut Off This American’s Ear — He Killed All 41 of Them in 36 Minutes
May 11, 1945—the morning when victory came to Europe.
For most of the world, it was a moment of jubilation. Church bells rang in London, Paris, New York. Flags were raised. Streets were filled with spontaneous celebrations. The Axis had fallen. The war was over.
But in the jungles of Luzon, on the island of the Philippines, Victory in Europe Day meant something far different for one lone American soldier.
At 4:47 a.m., in the early morning hours of that day, Private John McKini lay in his tent near Dingolan Bay. The 24-year-old sharecropper’s son from Georgia had just finished a long shift at a light machine gun position guarding a crucial supply route. He was exhausted, his rifle close by, and the quiet jungle around him made the perfect backdrop for a brief moment of rest. Little did he know, just a few hundred yards away, over 100 Japanese soldiers were quietly making their way through the dense underbrush, preparing for an assault that would change his life—and the course of the battle—forever.
A Soldier with Nothing to Prove
John McKini wasn’t supposed to be a hero. He wasn’t a seasoned officer or a high-ranking strategist. His story wasn’t one of grandeur or the stuff of legends. He was a simple farm boy with a third-grade education, someone who had enlisted in November 1942 with little more than the raw survival instincts he had learned from a hard life in the Georgia woods.
McKini had hunted and trapped animals to put food on the table for his family. He could shoot a squirrel at 50 yards with a .22 rifle by the time he was 12. When he enlisted in the army, the army discovered his exceptional skills with a rifle, though they were alarmed by his inability to read and write well. Yet, despite these shortcomings, McKini’s marksmanship was almost unparalleled, and soon, he became known as one of the best shots in the company.
He fought in New Guinea, survived the jungle, battled malaria, dysentery, and everything else that came with the brutal reality of the Pacific Theater. By May 1945, McKini wasn’t a soldier who stood out in any conventional sense—he was simply quiet, kept to himself, and did his duty without complaints. His fellow soldiers knew two things about him: he was the best shot in the company, and he slept with his rifle.
And that rifle would save his life.
The Unlikely Attack
The Japanese forces had been relentless on Luzon throughout the war, refusing to surrender even after the Philippine campaign had already cost the United States over 60,000 casualties. By May 1945, many Japanese forces were left in disarray, launching suicide charges and dawn raids against American positions. McKini’s unit, Company A of the 123rd Infantry Regiment, had established a key outpost at Dingolan Bay, guarding one of the most important supply routes on the island.
But that night, the Japanese knew McKini’s position. They had spent days studying it, timing the guard rotations, and calculating their assault. Sergeant Fukutaro Mori, a Japanese officer, led the advance with a quiet, deadly mission: eliminate the American guards without alerting the others. The Japanese soldiers were armed with rifles, grenades, knee mortars, and even swords. Their goal was clear—overrun the American position and kill everyone.
The attack force slipped past the outer guard post unnoticed, reaching McKini’s tent. Mori was prepared to eliminate him with one clean strike.
But he misjudged the distance.
The Fight of His Life
As McKini slept, the Japanese sergeant swung his sword at his neck. The blade caught McKini’s right ear instead, tearing through flesh and spraying blood across the tent. McKini woke instantly, his head ringing from the pain, his vision blurred, and there, looming over him, stood Sergeant Mori, preparing for another strike.
In less than a second, McKini’s body went into survival mode. The next moments were instinct, not thought.
McKini’s hand found his rifle in the dark.
No aiming. No thinking.
Just survival.
He swung the rifle like a club. The M1 Garand’s butt connected with Mori’s chin, shattering bone. Mori staggered, but before he could recover, McKini swung again. This time, the blow crushed Mori’s skull.
McKini was already hearing them outside—footsteps—dozens of them—coming fast, closing in on the camp. The main assault had begun.
One Man vs. 100
McKini’s blood was soaking his uniform, his ear still bleeding badly. His head rang from the sword strike. But he had less than one second to think about the situation.
The machine gun was the key to the entire American position. It guarded the most crucial approach. If the Japanese captured it, they could turn it on the Americans and rake the entire perimeter with fire. That meant everyone would die.
McKini didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed his rifle and charged.
Thirty yards away, he saw the machine gun emplacement. Two soldiers were fighting for their lives. One had been wounded, and the other made the right call—dragging him to safety—but it meant the gun was unattended.
Then McKini saw them. Ten Japanese soldiers had already reached the emplacement. One was trying to turn the gun on the Americans, but others were providing security, rifles raised, watching for any counterattack.
McKini didn’t slow down. He sprinted directly at them.
The Japanese soldiers saw him coming, one lone American soldier, bleeding, charging toward them.
Two Japanese raised rifles.
McKini was faster.
He fired four shots—one after the other—at 15 yards, then 10 yards. Four soldiers fell before he reached the sandbag wall.
In seconds, McKini was in the middle of the machine gun emplacement, fighting hand-to-hand.
Six soldiers were still alive.
Point-blank.
Four more shots.
McKini emptied his magazine and fired his last round into the chest of the eighth soldier. The rifle locked back on an empty clip with its distinctive metallic ping.
The soldiers knew what it meant.
They also knew they were about to die.
Relentless Combat, Relentless Precision
McKini reversed his grip on the rifle and swung it like an axe. He broke bones, crushed skulls, and fought with every last ounce of his being. Ten Japanese soldiers had captured the machine gun position.
Thirty seconds later, they were all dead.
But McKini’s battle wasn’t over. He still had to face the rest of the Japanese assault force.
He quickly realized his machine gun was damaged—the bolt was jammed, and the feed tray was bent. The most important weapon in the perimeter was now useless.
McKini scanned the perimeter, saw more Japanese soldiers preparing for another wave. He had no time to waste.
A single soldier against 100 wasn’t just impossible—it was insane. But McKini didn’t think about that. He didn’t consider surrender.
The Battle Continues
As the Japanese regrouped, McKini reloaded his rifle, determined to keep them at bay. The soldiers came at him in waves. Two squads, rifles with fixed bayonets, charged at him.
McKini dropped the first soldier at 60 yards.
Then the next.
And the next.
Each shot felt like it was taking every last ounce of his strength, but McKini kept firing with mechanical precision. He shot and reloaded. Shot and reloaded.
The first wave broke. The second wave hesitated at the jungle’s edge.
But McKini didn’t wait for them to make a move. He charged again—rifle in hand, faster than they could react.
He reached the nearest group, dropped five more soldiers with swift, calculated shots. When they tried to close in on him, he sidestepped, clubbed one soldier with his rifle, and shot another at point-blank range.
He kept moving—he couldn’t afford to stop.
A Hero Who Didn’t Stop Fighting
When reinforcements finally arrived 36 minutes into the battle, the scene they encountered was incomprehensible. 40 dead Japanese soldiers, scattered across the gunpit. McKini, his uniform torn, covered in blood, sitting on an ammunition crate, pressing a blood-soaked bandage against his ear.
He had just killed or wounded at least 40 men.
The soldiers who arrived couldn’t believe it. The sergeant who counted the bodies had to do it twice. At first, he didn’t believe the number. But after verifying, the investigators confirmed the impossible:
One man. 40 kills.
McKini had single-handedly repelled an attack of 100 soldiers.
His actions weren’t just brave—they were insane. His instincts, honed through years of survival in the wilds of Georgia, turned him into a force of nature. A force so overwhelming that 100 men couldn’t break him.
The Medal of Honor: A Simple Man’s Victory
McKini’s story reached Washington, and in June 1945, a recommendation for the Medal of Honor went forward. The highest military decoration in the United States.
By January 23, 1946, Private John McKini stood in the White House. President Harry Truman placed the Medal of Honor around his neck, describing his actions as “extreme gallantry, unsurpassed intrepidity.” The citation read like a standard military achievement, but it failed to capture the pure essence of the moment.
McKini didn’t care for fame. He didn’t speak much about the battle, not even to reporters. When asked, he gave brief answers—no drama, no exaggeration. Just the facts.
The reality was clear: he had done something most people wouldn’t have survived.
Yet after all that, McKini returned home to Georgia, not as a hero, but as a man who had simply done his duty.
A Silent Hero in a Quiet Town
John McKini’s neighbors knew about the Medal of Honor, but he never mentioned it. He never displayed the medal. He didn’t attend reunions or interviews. The nightmare of what he had endured—the 36 minutes that changed everything—followed him in silence.
In 1965, author Forest Bryant Johnson uncovered McKini’s story, piecing together the details of that morning on Luzon. His book Phantom Warrior was published in 2007, revealing to the world a man most had never heard of. John McKini wasn’t a celebrity; he was a farm boy who had lived through hell and came back a hero.
But to McKini, the war was done.
He didn’t need the recognition. He didn’t need the fame.
He had survived. He had protected his brothers-in-arms.
And for him, that was enough.
